There was a time when my father was so sure that my wild streak would land me in an emergency room (or worse) that he obsessed over reminding me to carry identification. He wanted to know that someone would notify him when I was unable to call for help. Others have worried that my smoking, my sunning, my driving, my friends, my mouth, or my fearless attitude would be the end of me. Then, there were those annoying diagnoses, one after another, hanging around my neck, for years, like time bombs. I managed to spite the diagnoses and the odds for over fifty years, with doctors assuring me that I would probably live longer than I want. This week, my four-year-old granddaughter changed everything. She informed me that my days are numbered. Fourteen to be exact; she predicts I will die in two weeks. I owe this prognosis not to lung or skin cancer, heart failure, an auto accident, my friends, or any of my proven diagnoses. As so often happens, a most unlikely culprit will claim my life. Darn. The upside of this is that I will probably make medical history. You will probably see my story on the national news, written up in medical journals, or possibly replacing a Lindsey Lohan story in the tabloids. Your friends might call or e-mail to ask if you heard about me, and to caution you to seek immediate help should you have the same affliction. Knowing how exciting it is for most people to be first with breaking news, I share this with you now, before the rest of the world gets wind of my situation. I also give my permission if you want to start talking this up before the big guys get the story. This precious child examined my body in a bathing suit and decided I can’t possibly live this way for long. She tried to keep it a secret, but I overheard her urge her sister to take a peek, followed by, “I think Gramma is going to die in about two weeks.” I will be the first person to succumb to a terminal case of wrinkled knees.

2015 update: Since I survived those precarious two weeks of wrinkled knees, I also made it through a case of H1N1 with pneumonia and a subarachnoid hemorrhage, among other less serious conditions. And I’ve developed plenty more wrinkles on the knees, as well as my face and neck and – well, every part of me. The elbows, oh, how could I have not listed the elbows first?

That four-year-old is twelve now and convinced I will live forever. I think. But there’s a new three-year-old. Interestingly, she looked at my knees the other day, closed in for a thorough inspection, gave me a sympathetic look, and asked if they hurt. When I said no, they didn’t hurt, she proceeded to ask about each line. Her patience and persistence are impressive.I’m guessing this seemingly odd concern over knees is actually explainable. Knees are at eye-level to people who are three and four years old. By the same criteria, though, I will have to assume that these girls who face knees daily must know that mine are unusually wrinkled.

To the t-ball champ/skateboard enthusiast, my sedentary existence held less appeal than bathing or clipping his nails.

"Don't you get tired of writing?" he asked. "That's all you ever want to do?"

"Don't you get tired of playing?" I shot back. "That's all you ever want to do."

"But Gramma, playing's fun. Writing's like school." He looked at the clipboard on my lap, scowled at the binder on the table beside me, and then sighed as though he had seen an IV pole and respirator attached to me.

I held but school's fun under my breath. He did well in Kindergarten, made good grades, and was already reading chapter books. Still, I wouldn't force Noah to do something as uncool as consider the possibility that school might be fun.

Miraculously, a few suffer-able quiet activities came to mind. "I enjoy writing the same way you like to play video games or watch movies."

Good question and one I had never considered he might ask. He wouldn't know how my words ended up in those books on the shelf, so I explained. "I write a chapter on paper first, then type it into the computer, print the pages, and put them in this binder. I keep doing that until I have enough chapters to make a book."

"How many?"

"As many as I want." I knew this wasn't going to be easy when he pulled his top lip between his teeth and rolled his eyes upward. "I write until I get to the end of the story."

He opened the binder, karate chopped the margins on the top page, and nodded. "Then you just cut these and stick them inside books?"

"I don't. Someone else does that part."

"Who? How do they get your pages?"

I saw where this was headed. Rather than answer fifty questions about the editor, the publisher, who would draw the pictures, and how would they get in stores, only to circle back to don't you get tired of writing again, I thought I'd let him answer his own question.

"How would you like it if one day you could make everyone do what you wanted them to do? What if you could make me ride the skateboard, or make your dad wear a dress?"

He laughed. "Hey, that would be funny."

"That's why I think writing is fun. When I write a story, I get to create all the people, name them anything I want, and make them do whatever I want them to do. I'm just a grown-up with a bunch of imaginary friends that I keep in books."

The teeth tugged on the lip a few more times while he thought it over. "I wanna do it."

I found him a notebook, gave him a pen, and turned him loose to create his own little world where he could control everyone. He didn't make me ride the skateboard or put his dad in a dress, but he did find out writing is fun.

Each of my grandchildren has developed a special 'gramma thing' - something they think they alone share with me. Politics is the link with my grandson, who will turn nine in July. (Originally published when he was eight. Today, he is seventeen.)

We delivered him to his first protest in a stroller (but did let him out to stand on the base of a statue with his little "Let Every Vote Count" poster for the TV cameras) and he has been my partner-in-protest and campaign buddy since.

By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)

While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work was really necessary.

I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.

"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.

"What do you hate most?" He asked.

"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.

Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"

I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."

We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.

Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"

And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.

Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”

He shook his head.

"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”

“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”

“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."

"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.

"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."

"Who is Syria?"

"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."

"Then Dad would protect Tate."

"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."

He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."

I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would discuss this conversation with them before talking to his friends.

My granddaughters, ages three and four, spot and pluck insects and worms from the grass with the precision of a starving-bird. My neighbor with the Venus Flytrap encourages them. I usually do my best to look away since I'm not a fan of slimy, crawly creatures.

Today, the girls built their insect castle of stones, sticks, dirt, and grass a few feet from my chair. I couldn't help but get involved.

Fiona stared at her opened palm. Tatum leaned closer to see what her older sister found so interesting.

"Is that my roly-poly's head?" Tatum asked with a hint of sadness.

Fiona squinted, her nose almost touching her hand. "Where?"

"Right there." Tatum pointed to a smudge near her sister's wrist. "By the green chalk."

Fiona twisted her hand to view the speck from different angles. She studied thoroughly before making her announcement. "No, silly. It's a baby caterpillar. Or an ant." She moved Tatum back a step and blew the grass cover off the castle. "There's your roly-poly. I think you stepped on it."

Tatum scooped up the bug. "I'm sorry," she said, hugging him to her chest.

Fiona placed her baby caterpillar or ant on a leaf bed and pulled Tatum's arm down to examine the wounded roly-poly. "I think she's dead," she pronounced. "You should release her so her mom can find her."

It was Tatum's turn to squint. "She's not dead." She studied her palm. "Look. She's slobbering."

Fiona amended her diagnosis. "She's going to die if you don't get her some food."

They admitted the roly-poly to a private room in the castle-turned-hospital, went inside, and returned with food. Together, they crumbled a soda cracker in what was left of the hospital after they each stepped on it, and left the infirmed to eat while they followed a million-legged, hairy, crawly thing making his escape down the walk.

I looked up from my book a short time later and noticed the cracker crumbs also making their get-away, in a slow convoy across the lawn. The girls spent the next twenty minutes watching ants haul crumbs home to the hill. Meanwhile, Gramma traded out the slobbering roly-poly for a fresh one.

In special circumstances, I can manage a roly-poly or a lightening bug, even if they're drooling.

On the last day of the retreat, I dropped into what had become my favorite position in the discussion circle, back to the windows, facing the door. “Carl Hiassen? John Grisham?” I mulled over possibilities with the young girl in the seat next to me.

“Maybe Barbara Kingsolver!” she said. “It’s bound to be someone we talked about this week.”

I folded my new handouts into the collection already in my purse, and shoved the bag under my chair while a hotel staffer thanked us and reviewed departure plans. When I rose again, Hillary Clinton had replaced the young girl beside me. Hillary Clinton! And no one else seemed to notice.

Unashamed, I regressed to teenybopper mentality, choked, grabbed her hand, and blathered like a fool. “I can’t believe it! I’m a huge fan. I have your books and your tee shirt.” In case she had amnesia, I threw in, “You’re Hillary Clinton!”

She pulled the tight, closed-lip smile and greeted me with a wink as our moderator took the floor. A revelation and carotid thumping slammed me at the same time. Bill Clinton was the mystery guest speaker who would end this writing retreat. His book was out. Hillary would be waiting in the wings if she were the speaker.

“I have to call my daughter,” I announced and stuck my head between my legs to find the purse. “My granddaughter is in love with your husband,” I went on once I had the bag on my lap. “She has to bring her here. My daughter, I mean. She has to bring my granddaughter.”

Hillary nodded. I think she leaned away from me but I didn’t have the composure to be embarrassed. I was too busy fighting the zipper on my purse. Finally, phone in hand but speed-dial number on vacation, I punched in my daughter's home number, managing to hit all the numbers on the second try.

A kid answered. Even in my star-struck state, I knew it wasn’t one of my daughter’s kids. I asked for Jessica, using my hand to hide the phone and my voice from the frowning moderator.

“She’s not here. This is Brian.”

I kept my eyes on the floor and whispered. “Get Brent.”

“He’s not here. Just me.”

There was no way my daughter and son-in-law had left an eight-year-old nephew alone in their house. No way on earth, and I didn’t have time to play games with this kid. I disconnected and hit redial, hoping an adult would answer this time.

Hillary clamped my shoulder in a vice grip. “Don’t move.” She twanged, in a nasal monotone. Without turning my head, I rolled my eyes up to confirm the nightmare. Hillary had turned into Laura Freaking Bush.

The cell phone slid to the floor as the doors across from me opened and secret service agents, one for each of us, flooded the room. They circled the group and stood behind our chairs. That could only mean one thing, and it was the last thing I could bear.

“He’s never written a book,” I cried. “Probably never read one.”

“Don’t move,” Laura repeated. “And don’t speak.”

The air stopped. My life ended. That was the only logical explanation; I died and there was a hell.

Smirky swaggered through the door, blinking and clearing his throat. He started on the left, shook a hand, and made an ignorant statement that had nothing to do with writing. I wanted my money back, but I probably couldn’t use it in hell. He moved to the second guest, hand outstretched and on topic this time. “Gosh durn, I like books. The American people like books. I tell the American people all the time how much I like books.”

My stomach rolled into my throat. My sweaty hands shook. I leaned over to pick up the phone but it slid from my hand. He moved to the third chair, getting closer. Laura reprimanded me again. Dizziness set it.

I pulled my sleeves over my hands and realized that wasn’t enough. He would still be in my face, breathing the same air. He would have me arrested when he saw the look in my eyes, but they’d probably shoot me if I tried to run.

I woke in a sweat, just after I slid my face below the neckline of my blouse.

I’m still afraid of writing retreats, and I don’t try to interpret this dream.

Glazed preoccupation, glowing skin, picture in hand to remind her he wasn't a dream, giggles and visible jitters - she showed all the classic signs of a girl who had lost her heart and mind to a first love. Her eyes shot sparks when anyone else mentioned him, and her voice took on that wispy, can't-jinx-a-good-thing throaty tone when she spoke his name, every other breath.

I didn't have the heart to correct her pronunciation of his name.

The fifty-something-year difference in their ages fazed her even less than his wife and the three states that separated them. Love knew no obstacles.

Her siblings had their special interests, the same as she did. The oldest charged through the door and up the stairs with the same request each time. "Gramma, do you have candy?" The baby still flung her arms open for a hug.

Lover girl Fiona scooted right past me, eyes aglow, and lifted her sweetie's book off the end table. All five pounds and nine hundred fifty-seven pages of it. Usually, by the time she finagled and balanced her load, and lugged it across the room, the baby was through with me and I sat, prepared on the couch.

With a grunt, Fiona hoisted the tome onto my lap, ecstatic over the cover. "Gramma, can we read Bill Clintock?"

Fortunately, at barely-three-years-old, looking at the pictures was enough reading to satisfy this child. She still hasn't figured out that choosing My Life as a bedtime story might delay bedtime a couple of weeks.

She clasped her tiny hands, closed her eyes, and waited for me to open to the pictures, every time, with the anxiety most children save for Santa.

"That's Bill Clintock's mother, holding him when he was a baby. There's his first dad." She dutifully pointed at faces, rushing through preliminaries before grabbing her chest and returning her idol's huge smile on the bottom of the third page of pictures. Young, not-so-young, formal, informal, playing the trumpet in sunglasses, in a crowd, from behind – she found him in every picture and got more excited with each one. Aren't first loves special?

Gramma called dibs the night before Bill 'Clintock' Clinton's television interview and had Lover Girl sleep over, not that anyone slept much with all the excitement in the air. Fiona was up and pacing long before the early morning interview, chanting, "I'm so excitick. I'm so excitick to see Bill Clintock."

The excitick was contagious. I rang my hands with her, thinking it was the longest ten minutes I'd known in a while.

The anticipated face finally came on the screen. Fiona grabbed her chest and screamed, like he was Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, or Spongebob. She ran to the televison and watched in silence, until he said the magic words.

"Gramma." She gasped, and turned with tears of adoration in her big eyes. "He said 'children'. He likes children!" I believe her life was complete. That was all she needed to be happy forever, or at least until her brother had something she wanted.

The obsession lasted over a good year. Not bad for a first love. My friends said his name, just to watch her grab her chest and light up the room with her smile. She lugged that book around until she looked like a body-builder. The pictures in my book showed signs of attrition.

Then, almost instantly, she stopped asking about him. Maybe she realized she had the name wrong, and was embarrassed. She might have heard rumors, or learned married men were off limits. I missed her crush.

"Don't you love Bill any more?" I asked, immediately wishing I hadn't when her shattered heart poured through her eyes.

In a broken voice, she explained. "He can't be my boyfriend when he doesn't even know where I live."

It’s official. I have permanently moved unconditional love over to the con column with colorblind and tolerant. People claim these traits with pride and expect me to be impressed or grateful. I’m neither. Instead, I am confused – sometimes insulted and angry. Elements of each concept hurt recipients, who often suffer in silence since our society gives a blind nod to buzz words that sound nice despite the fact that their existence proves the opposite of what their users meant to imply.

If someone tolerates me, that means he does not like or appreciate me so he will fake a smile through gritted teeth and do his best to convince the world that he is a good guy for being dishonest. He might fool a few people when he boasts about his white, middle-aged, liberal, female friend but he will not convince me – the person who matters. I will hear negativity and feel disdain, and I will know that I am included when he talks about the other white, middle-aged, liberal females he dislikes. I prefer honesty.

Colorblind drives me crazier. Unless totally blind and maybe partially deaf as well, people should recognize features and customs that identify what the self-proclaimed colorblind boast that they are unable to see. I respect people who appreciate color as part of the rainbow that decorates the world. I like people who purposely collect unique individuals instead of restricting admission to only those who meet a ridiculous colorless-blob criterion. The only honest reason for denying the ability to discern color, since that implies there must be something wrong with certain colors, would be to hide bias. Hiding the truth from others is not an act of kindness.

Unconditional love starts on the premise that others are willing to share belief in something that probably does not exist and absolutely is not verifiable, the same as belief in a god, which makes the use of God as the epitome of unconditional love both pertinent and baffling. Unconditional love is always based on a condition, which will reveal itself within a few questions if pursued. The quickest route I have discovered is to thank the person who brags about unconditional love for sharing your love of child molesters, people who eat kittens for breakfast, Jehovah’s witnesses who show up at the door bright and early on Saturday mornings, and drug-dealing prostitutes. I can almost promise immediate proof that you, along with these others, are excluded from her fold of unconditional love recipients.

Unconditional love sounds good on the surface (which is why it is so popular) but no one knows for certain there will never be a breaking point. I can say love never dies since I have not stopped loving anyone but that would be the same as saying love at first sight, death, and winning lotteries do not exist because I have not yet experienced them. At best, it’s a wild guess. I can say that my child could never do anything that would change my love for her but until she drinks my last Coke, votes Republican, stabs her sister in the back, or goes on a bank-robbing spree, it’s only a guess.

Claims related to unconditional love for family are the ones that annoy me most. The obvious condition, of course, is that the recipient of this glorious gift be family. In growing numbers evidenced by fertility medicine, that would be blood family born at controlled times. Me and mine, now – the American dream.

In some families, unconditional love excuses principles, intelligence, honesty, fairness, questions, and apologies. It fails to recognize actions so, thanks to unconditional love, nothing means anything. Or everything means nothing. The person who has always been honest with everyone will receive the same respect as the pathological liar, unless the honest person points out a few lies in which case he will be labeled a troublemaker and expected to take it back. Someone who waltzes in once a decade or so when she needs something will walk out with everything, leaving empty-handed the ones who have been there every day of every year for everyone. Child abuse? Substance abuse? Elderly abuse? Doesn’t matter if calling out the abuse will shatter the image of a big, happy, unconditionally loving family. Better to lose a few to only the good die young or spend eternity scratching the head and saying, “Gotta love ‘em,” than to shatter the façade and do the hard work of saving them.

For many, the same protections spill over to politics. Only traitors doubt the country or the President. Want to abuse the poor, the elderly, the unemployed, the underemployed, and the sick? Want to kill innocent people in foreign countries? Unconditional love is the ticket.

Unpopular as it might be to admit this, I state openly now that my love comes with conditions. Everyone (including people I don’t know and drug-dealing prostitutes) gets my love from the start, but there are conditions. How I respond to the person or use that love will depend on the actions of the individuals. My love does not excuse lies, does not require me to spend time with people who mistreat me, does not mean I will defend people above principles or family over strangers. It does not guarantee my silence when I see something wrong, and it does not mean blood or birth ties trump allegiance to like-minded or kindred spirits. I can love people and find their behavior unacceptable and their company undesirable. And I don’t know that I might not wake up one day unloving half of the people I loved yesterday.

I had unusual children. They wanted to stay at home and hand out candy on Halloween, and provided lists of their favorite charities when asked what they wanted for their birthdays. They seldom asked for anything and never made Christmas lists. They made gift buying almost impossible.

So, when my youngest sat on Santa's lap long enough to repeat her life story and share her endless list of perceived injustices in the world, an internal alarm went off. When he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, my heart sank.

I had dealt with her questions and wishes for two months and still had a hard time controlling my sorrow; she had blindsided this poor man and his emotions. Santa looked around his elves and caught my eye. I shrugged, shallow, but the best I had to offer at the time. He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and sent her back to me.

"Did you see him kiss me?" She sounded relieved, maybe excited. "I told him I want him to bring my dad back, and he kissed me."

"What else did you tell him?" I hoped for a list of toys and a new conversation. "You were up there a long time."

She turned her eyes away. "I just told him about my dad so he'll find the right one." Her light, confident tone assured me she still believed a man in red could deliver anything she wanted. This would surely be the last year. I wished she could have wanted something possible.

As we walked through the mall, I asked more specific questions. What had she told Santa about her dad? Did she ask for anything else?

"I told him my dad had a beard and played guitar, and he liked Chucky Cheese. And he's dead."

"Santa can't bring your dad back," I said. "Nobody can. But maybe he could bring you a guitar." I waited out her labored sigh and defiant repositioning. "Did you ask for a guitar?"

"No way. He'd bring a toy one, like he did with the piano."

"Maybe not. You're older now."

"Santa only brings toy stuff. I want a real guitar."

I suggested we shop awhile before leaving and switched directions when her eyes lit up. "Choose a store. Anything except pets."

"Toys," she said, but changed her mind as we neared the organ music. "Can we go in the music store and look at microphones?"

"Look," I said, grateful for the microphone clue. "No touching and don't ask for anything because I don't have money for a microphone tonight."

Three frazzled clerks juggled impatient customers in the crowded store. My instinct said escape as I squeezed between the pre-teen male torturing a display drum set and a couple, obviously his parents, arguing over the length of time the noisemakers would hold his interest. By the time I cleared myself from the area and my head of the banging, my daughter had made her way to the other side of the store.

When I caught up with her, she had bypassed microphones and found a three-quarter acoustic hanging on the wall above the electric guitars. She stared, eyes glazed and lip pulled between her teeth, ignoring my presence, if it even registered with her. I stepped back to allow a frazzled employee through.

He started past her, stopped, and caught her eye. "Want me to get that for you?"

She shot me a glare. "I can't touch anything."

Without waiting for my response, he climbed a stepladder and handed the guitar down to her. "Okay, Mom?" He asked.

Saying no would have been like letting the air out of her arm floaties or denying the child another breath. She held the instrument and stared as though it might disappear if she looked away.

"Try it out," the defrazzling clerk urged.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed, gently at first. As she grew comfortable and retreated into her own world, she warmed up her voice and let go. "Daddy's Hands," she sang, and played louder, her voice on key even if her chords weren't. Her song lured a gathering of customers to our corner of the store.

Still oblivious to everything around her, she stopped playing, traced the row of butterflies circling the sound hole, and said the magic words. "It was meant to be. I love butterflies."

"She wants it, Mom," the unfrazzled clerk said.

She climbed to her feet and handed the guitar back to him. "My mom doesn't have enough money."

I believe I heard gasps from the crowd and for a minute thought some of them were reaching for their wallets. "You can go back and tell Santa," I said. The clerk supported that idea, but she sighed and explained the problem with Santa and toy instruments.

"Maybe you can hold it?" I asked. "And we can tell Santa to come here and see what she wants?"

The too-freaking-excited-to-contain-himself clerk led the crowd in a series of cheers. "I'll take it down there myself and show it to him, after the store closes," he said. "And make sure he sees this exact guitar."

I pulled out my checkbook. "If you're sure, I guess we need to buy a strap and some guitar picks, so she'll be prepared."

"Positive. Santa's my buddy," the clerk said, walking behind the counter. He processed the transaction--with a twinkle in his eye--and handed the receipt to me.

My daughter received the butterfly guitar on Christmas that year. I got the real Santa.

It’s only Tuesday, and already a heavy week for prayer requests. I’ve been asked to pray for a dead woman, for a couple of people going to surgery, for a favorable outcome in a competition, for love, and for a third party, with details of the specific outcome the second party wants me to request for the third.

It doesn’t matter that I have said I would feel presumptuous or ridiculous praying for most of what they request, and would prefer they didn’t ask. Prayer requesters assume the right to disregard my beliefs, and to decide for me and everyone else what, how, and when we should pray.

I started asking questions at the age of seven. The list grows over time, and so far, no one has provided reasonable answers to any of them. I’m assuming, from the looks on the faces of those I ask, they probably run out to ask their other friends to pray for my confusion.

Why would any god listen to me over the person I am praying for?

Why would an all-knowing god require groveling, or my direction, before bestowing his graces?

Why aren’t the prayers of one person enough?

Is this really a popularity contest, where the person with the most praying friends receives the most gifts?

If this is a popularity contest, should I worry less about living a good life and more about making the right friends?

Will my afterlife change, depending on how many of those left behind continue to pray for me?

If so, is there no need for me to lead a good life so long as I leave behind people who will pray for me?

I believe there are many things worse than death, so when people ask me to pray for sick friends to recover, will they be offended if I pray for them to die instead?

Does the team with the most prayers always win?

Should I pray for doctors to do their jobs well, or patients to accept treatment and comply with the doctors’ orders, or for a god to control the outcome?

As an afterthought, possibly related, I’d prefer to see bumper stickers that say ‘Smile, I Love You’ because that infers personal responsibility and dedication.

(Originally published 2008) One of the best things about having a granddaughter who is still young enough to feel big when she stands on a chair to wash dishes is that while she feels big, she also talks big. Hannah Montana and I had it first give way to more important matters, whether she knows that or not, making the extra work of mopping up the river and secretly arranging the dishes so I’ll know which to pull back out later for a second wash worth the effort. During a recent dishwashing conversation, the dramatic chair-stander complained. “We use the dishwasher at our house so I can’t have dishes for my chore. I just have baby chores.” She reeled off her list of childish duties, shaking her head like her little heart might break. I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince her that taking on responsibility is grown-up, and I was proud of her, even if she thought her chores were insignificant. In a tone that assured me that my opinion could not have been more unwelcome, she named the better chores assigned to her brother and sister. I knew it was not a good time to bring up pesky little facts, like they are older, and she is an accident waiting to happen so it’s best that her chores don’t involve breakables or taking more than three steps. Nor did I mention that I would bet my last dollar that she insisted she needed help with her jobs when it was time to do them. Thinking I might encourage her to prove her worth by helping out with unassigned tasks, I started down my job list. “Who cleans the bathroom?” I asked. “Mommy and Daddy.” “How about dusting?” “Mommy and Daddy.” “Laundry?” “Mommy and Daddy.” “Cooks? Mows?” “Mommy and Daddy.” This continued for some time before she changed her answer. “Ironing?” “Daddy irons.” “Not Mommy? Why does Daddy iron?” With an eye roll and a duh! tone, she explained. “Daddy irons because he wears all of the wrinkly clothes and he irons better than Mommy.” Her daddy also braids hair and does pedicures. He attends their ballgames and practices; watches their karate and gymnastics classes; plays video, board, and yard games with them; drives them to visit friends, and helps with homework. Long after she stopped talking, I kept remembering. I loved her daddy years before that day, and have always thought he was a great dad, but this took my appreciation for him over the top. After forgiving myself for not consciously understanding what this means to his family before, I realized nothing could please me more than knowing that my grandchildren live in an equal world without stereotypical gender roles, and that my daughter has a role other than housekeeper, cook, and caretaker in their home. Once again, it is a gift-giving occasion and I have nothing to give that compares to what I have received. Happy Father’s Day, Daughter’s Husband, and thank you.